My work colleagues and I take a walk around the block at lunchtime. I don't much need the exercise - I get plenty of that bicycling to and from work. But it does get me out of the office and offers fleeting refuge from the merciless R&B and pop divas who infest the airwaves. I'd rather have no radio at all, but hey.

We often pass through a graveyard to get to our foreshore walk. For the others, the walk is the thing. For me, it's seeing all the headstones. I'd prefer to linger, but hey.

Enid, Ethel, Euphemia: forgotten names that offer an unintended marker of impermanence. Cracks and cavities, an unanswerable argument of wind and rain, they're another.

I love this funereal typography from other eras. I'm intrigued by the transforming action of moss, lichen and corrosion upon them. Some inscriptions are barely legible, almost completely colonised by lichen; others demonstrate a gravity-fed mineral bleed. Nature rewrites stone and iron beautifully but implacably. An obsessive, unknowable artist has churned out endless variations on a theme. I mutely observe.

Mutely because my workmates esteem me oddly enough. This is an odd thing to rhapsodise about, I suppose.

This mausoleum was erected in the early twenties. It has taken the argument inside, away from inquisitive eyes. There's evidence of a recent-enough limewash. One family line hasn't stopped arguing yet. No inscription. What sort of inscrutable statement is this? Pharaohic, heroic, shadowboxing with eternity beyond the ken of the merely mortal.

They're right. I'm enthused about the oddest things.